Little Grey Mice Read online

  Elke had risen earlier than usual, concerned about the dog, but Poppi had got unaided from his basket, managed their morning walk – although not as far as usual – and appeared to eat as much as normal on their return. She’d considered bringing the animal to the office – she did so very rarely, although Werle did not object – but finally decided he would be more comfortable in surroundings he knew.

  She was still in the Chancellery at her regular time, before everybody else on Werle’s staff. The promptness was unnecessary – she could have left lesser staff to prepare the day – but this routine was the most important of all to Elke. A person unsure of everything in her private life, she was, professionally, superbly efficient and assured, and proudly guarded that reputation. She maintained a diary identical in entries to Werle’s. She checked it generally for the week and then in detail, for the forthcoming day: when the outer offices began to fill she had already dictated a series of tape-recorded memoranda ordering all past records, current forecasts and statistical information Werle might possibly need for every meeting and scheduled appointment.

  Werle’s correspondence was delivered promptly at nine with the customary resentment from a hard-faced, grey-haired senior secretary named Gerda Pohl. The most obvious cause for the persistent attitude was that Gerda disliked taking instructions from someone younger than herself: from the personnel records to which she had access Elke knew the other woman to be almost twenty years her senior. Elke also suspected that Gerda considered she should have gained the promotion as Werle’s personal assistant: she’d been on his staff much longer. In the first few months, almost a year in fact, Elke had tried to break down the antipathy but had always been rebuffed. Now she no longer bothered, although she remained always politely civil.

  Gerda had already opened and sorted the correspondence not governed by an official security restriction. Elke waited until the other woman left her office before going through the pile again, rearranging three of the relegated letters to greater importance in Gerda’s order. On those and several more she attached hand-written reminders to Werle of previous exchanges on the same subject and dictated further memoranda into her tape machine for the earlier letters to be retrieved from records and lodged with her in readiness, should Werle call for them.

  Material governed by security restrictions had not, of course, come through the normal postal service. It had been delivered by hand to a central security receiving bureau in the basement of the Chancellery. There each item addressed to Günther Werle was logged against the name and identity number of the courier and that of the receiving official before being assembled all together in a sealed pouch for final delivery to Werle’s department. Elke possessed the security clearance authorizing her to open the package. Inside were six separate pieces of correspondence. Three were marked at her level of clearance: the remaining three were not. One she could open was a request from the American embassy for policy guidance on the settlement of the constantly arriving East German refugees, another was a position report on the estimated number of original émigrés returning to the East, and the third an assessment of the difficulties the original, massive crossing continued to impose on relief agencies.

  Elke scanned each paper intently, making reminder notes to herself on a separate jotting pad, then formulating further hand-written reference notes to be attached to all three for Werle’s guidance. These she placed uppermost on the correspondence file, with the three envelopes she was not allowed to open at the very top.

  By the time Werle’s buzzer sounded, Elke also had ready all the material she had earlier requested from the other staff, topped by a typed schedule of everything the Cabinet Secretary had to do that day.

  Werle was seated at his desk, smiling up, when Elke entered through her connecting door. There were similarities in the furniture and décor between the two offices, although Werle’s was much larger, the conference room actually set aside in a separate, adjoining chamber. The area of the park was the same, but with a view of the Rhine which Elke didn’t have, and Werle had his telephones on the principal desk. There were also framed but separate photographs of his wife and son. Apart from an unmarked blotter and a double row of pencils and pens, the remainder of the desk was bare. Werle was a meticulously neat and tidy man, in everything: he rarely left work over from one day to the next, neither did he like cluttering his desk with papers or documents. His system was to answer or respond to items as they were presented, for them to be cleared and moved on at once by Elke. He was also personally very neat. He was slightly built and comparatively thin, with no middle-aged thickening around his waist. He was always dressed in black or grey, his shirts were always white and his ties never loud. His hair was barbered very short and Elke could never remember it being disarrayed, any more than she could recall him losing his temper or even his composure, whatever the frustration or crisis. His voice was so quiet it was easy sometimes to imagine he was whispering, although after so long working as closely as she did with the man Elke never had difficulty in hearing what he said.

  Although Günther Werle never boasted, because he was far too modest, Elke knew that throughout the upper echelons of government he was regarded with far more admiration and esteem than his official title might have suggested. He had occupied the position for nearly twenty years and achieved the status, although unofficial, of adviser and confidant to ministers and senior officials in every ministry of goverment during every coalition and administration.

  From hurriedly terminated laughter when she entered a room or from occasionally half-heard remarks Elke was aware of sporadic and quite ungrounded conjecture among the rest of the staff about a personal relationship between herself and Werle.

  Elke had tried to analyse it herself. There was a deep and profound mutual respect. A perfect professional working understanding. And an instinctively denned friendship. At Werle’s request Elke suggested presents at anniversaries and at Christmas for his wife, whose name was Sybille and who needed daily rest and frequent visits to health spas to ease a lassitude for which doctors and specialists could find no medical explanation. Elke bought the gifts, too. And those for the son. On Werle’s own birthday and at Christmas Elke only ever offered a commemorative card, which she noted he never took home but always left in his office. On matching occasions he, usually shyly, gave her perfume or chocolates. The gifts were always quite small and relatively inexpensive, as was proper from a superior to a supportive personal assistant.

  ‘An enjoyable weekend, Frau Meyer?’ The query was a familiar beginning to their week.

  ‘Thank you, Herr Werle,’ replied Elke, on cue.

  ‘Ursula?’

  ‘As always.’ She wouldn’t tell him about the incident with the dog: she wasn’t sure yet she would tell Ida. She hadn’t been able to record the incident in her diary, the previous night, either: she’d left the entry blank, which was how it would stay. ‘How is Frau Werle?’ She always felt it necessary to include the man’s wife in the ritual.

  Werle gave what could have been an impatient lift of his shoulders. ‘Indisposed once more, I’m afraid. She’s considering a spa she’s heard about in Bavaria.’ He moved, as if to speak further, but then stopped. He was absolutely sure of what he was recommending for Elke – privately hoping it would be beneficial on more than one level – but there were still too many procedures yet to be completed for him to be able to tell her. It would be good, when he could. Businesslike he straightened and said: ‘Shall we start?’

  Werle’s side-table, assigned for Elke’s use, was as clear as the main desk. She sat at it primly, her skirt covering her tight-together knees, offering first the three sealed security envelopes and waiting while the man went through the contents. He looked up, having done so, and said: ‘Can you imagine after all that’s happened that America is seeking private discussions on short-range nuclear missiles!’

  Absolute trust, thought Elke, adding to her mental list of what they shared. Strictly according to regulations it wa
s a breach of security for Werle to have intimated what had been in the sealed messages, but neither regarded it as such. She offered the three documents she was cleared to open and said: ‘This is all fairly predictable.’

  ‘I’ll need everything, from the time of the Hungarian open door decision in 1989. Keep the reunification file constantly up to date.’

  Elke indicated the notation attached to the top three letters. ‘That lists what I’ve already called for: they’ll be with me in an hour.’

  Werle smiled again, a white, even-toothed smile. ‘I rely upon you so very much,’ he said. And would soon prove how much.

  Elke was momentarily confused. She felt hot and wondered, further surprised, whether she was blushing. Hurriedly she said: ‘The amount of material will be substantial. It might be better if you told me the references most likely to be needed: I could go through everything and create a discussion index. I’ll assemble the missile material separately.’

  ‘Just get me the statistics,’ ordered Werle. ‘Numerical strength between NATO and the Warsaw Pact, dates of decisions in the past and a résumé of the arguments put forward.’

  Elke nodded, indicating the remaining mail. ‘Everything else is routine.’

  ‘Diary entries?’

  Elke offered the typed list of that day’s engagements. Werle looked at it, but only fleetingly. ‘Two hours before I’m due anywhere. Send Frau Pohl in first, to start. I’ll switch every thirty minutes, to clear it all before I go. Usual vetting, by you.’

  Elke returned to her own office and dispatched Gerda Pohl, who responded with a grunt but said nothing. At the same time Elke told the secretaries that upon completion everything had to be returned to her to be checked and approved. This system for non-classified and routine correspondence enabled Werle to sign at the end of the day without having to concentrate upon every word, fact and phrase, confident it had been approved by Elke.

  After instructing the secretaries, Elke carefully briefed two researchers upon what she anticipated Werle would want on the continuing refugee movement from East to West Germany. Finally she outlined the request to the third researcher on the more easily assembled missile information Werle demanded.

  Having established the activities of the day Elke turned at last to Saturday’s security summons. It only took a few minutes’ study of the late night personnel log of the preceding Friday. Elke sighed, heavily, at the identification of Gerda Pohl’s name: the carelessness would have to be challenged and Elke disliked confrontations.

  She was rehearsing it in her mind when Ida came on to her private line. Even on a mechanical instrument like a telephone her sister’s ebullience, a liveliness, was tangible. It began as a disjoined social chat but quite quickly Ida asked about Ursula the previous day and insisted that she’d meant what she’d said about making a visit. Elke accepted, suddenly knowing the need for companionship the next time. She positively decided against telling Ida of the previous day’s episode. It was very unlikely that Dr Schiller or anyone else at the home would refer to it in front of Ida. Schiller had dismissed it as something without importance. Elke ended the conversation agreeing to the usual lunch with her sister and worked for an hour collating Werle’s briefing notes before returning to his office to ensure he left with sufficient time to make his first appointment. She left soon after Werle.

  It took her less than fifteen minutes to reach her apartment, which was on the third floor of a pre-war, five-storey house in a cul-de-sac off Kaufmannstrasse. She entered calling the dog by name. There was no answering bark – no sound of him scurrying to meet her – and Elke practically ran into the kitchen. Poppi lay in his basket as she had left him, but he must have moved at some time because he had been sick, very slightly, out on the protective paper. Anxiously Elke called his name again. The dog lifted his head and got stiffly up, emerging with staggered unsteadiness towards her. Elke knelt to pick him up, but quickly stopped, not wanting to hurt the already bruised animal again. She fondled his ears instead, deciding she could not take a chance over the sickness.

  ‘Can’t have you …’ she began, addressing the dog, but didn’t finish. Despite the determination not to do so, she increasingly found herself talking to Poppi. It really had to stop!

  The veterinerary surgeon came curtly on to the telephone, clearly irritated at being interrupted during a lunch period, and just as curtly insisted it was nothing to worry about. As she cleared up after the dog, relaid more paper, and deodorized that part of the kitchen with a disinfectant spray, Elke decided that if Poppi was ill again she’d take him to a different animal specialist.

  As she washed her hands, first with liquid disinfectant before switching to normal soap, Elke wondered about making herself something to eat. At once she remembered the reading on the bathroom scales. Today – occupying her lunch-hour attending to Poppi – was as good a time as any to begin the intended diet. She wasn’t hungry anyway. She slowly walked the dog, although more briefly than in the morning, resettled it into its basket and set out fresh food and water.

  ‘I’ll be back soon,’ she said, at the door, and wished she hadn’t.

  There were three telephone calls listed for her attention when she returned to the Chancellery and she easily resolved each without the need to consult Werle. Before she finished doing that the researchers delivered everything she’d ordered that morning, giving her the opportunity to consider it and ensure the file on the missile query was in proper chronological order before the appointment with Werle.

  Elke was fully prepared when the buzzer sounded, promptly at three o’clock. Werle accepted the folders without opening them, confident they would contain everything he wanted, and nodded agreement to Elke’s brief account of the telephone queries she had handled in his absence. Elke had anticipated with the exception of possibly three past reports all that the man needed.

  Pleased with herself she said: ‘I’ll have most of it indexed by tonight: everything completed by mid-morning tomorrow.’ If she had not had to get home to Poppi she could have worked late and completed the task that night.

  Werle smiled. ‘I don’t think I could function without you.’

  ‘It’ll give you an opportunity to review everything: to decide if you want anything else.’ Elke wished he hadn’t made the remark, just as she wished he hadn’t said what he had that morning. It wasn’t how things normally were between them.

  ‘All this afternoon’s meetings are here in the Chancellery,’ he said, looking casually at his typed schedule. ‘I’ll get back before the last appointment to deal with this morning’s correspondence.’

  ‘It will all be ready,’ Elke guaranteed.

  Again Werle felt the urge to tell her what he had set into motion. Instead, lamely, he said: ‘I know it will be.’

  Elke ordered the extra missile research at the same time as asking for all the secretarial work to be delivered to her within thirty minutes. She’d already indexed three files by the time it came.

  Her immediate concern just as quickly became anger. There were mistakes to be corrected on four of the letters she first read and even more serious errors in two much lengthier reports she had wanted duplicated for overnight ministry distribution.

  Gerda Pohl had prepared every one.

  Elke’s first consideration was to minimize delay. She searched hurriedly through the pile, separating everything upon which the woman had worked and putting it to one side. There was no correction necessary on anything the other secretaries had prepared. Elke went back to the isolated pile and found two more wrongly typed pieces. She made a further separation, leaving herself with only the erroneous material. Patiently, utterly absorbed, she scrutinized and corrected everything before finally summoning the older woman into her office.

  ‘Do you have a problem?’ Elke demanded. The anger helped, but she always found it difficult to convey authority.

  ‘Problem?’ Gerda’s attitude was insolent.

  ‘I was called here on Saturday by security. A cla
ssified reference file released to this office, into your custody, was not recorded as having been put in your own safe.’

  ‘I put it in the safe,’ insisted Gerda, at once.

  ‘But didn’t log it!’ said Elke. She pushed the rejected letters across the desk. ‘Now this! Seven items with figures wrong and facts wrong and places appallingly mistyped!’

  ‘I can’t hear what he says,’ protested Gerda. It was the established defence to any correction or rejection.

  ‘Difficulty in hearing doesn’t excuse mistyping or misspelling. And there are addressee and destination faults that are clearly – and correctly – printed on file,’ retorted Elke.

  ‘Must have made a mistake,’ said the older woman. The insolence was becoming childishly petulant.

  ‘I’m telling you that you’ve made mistakes!’ said Elke, in an exasperated effort for sarcasm that didn’t work. ‘That’s why I want to know if there’s some problem, beyond this office.’

  ‘No,’ said Gerda. ‘I haven’t got a problem.’

  ‘So why did it happen? Seven times! And why didn’t you complete Friday’s security log?’

  The woman shrugged, carelessly. ‘Unavoidable mistakes.’

  ‘They’re not unavoidable.’

  ‘Are you accusing me of doing it deliberately!’

  Elke recognized the first direct challenge. She had to take account of the unions. She said: ‘I’m asking, not accusing.’

  ‘I’ve explained.’ Gerda looked disappointed at Elke’s answer.

  ‘Not satisfactorily.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ demanded Gerda, still challenging.